


Suffocating

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Series: ABO Dark!verse [4]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Belts, Child Abuse, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Father/Son Incest, Gaslighting, Implied Mpreg, Incest, Knotting, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Spanking, Parent/Child Incest, Physical Abuse, Self-Lubrication, Stancest - Freeform, reference to a piss kink thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 05:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13698003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: It's not so bad keeping around the house, taking care of Shermie and Pops. It's not bad but it is suffocating.





	Suffocating

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for some Tumblr requests. You thirsty fuckin' anons. <3

They bury Ma only three days after she dies. Stan doesn’t know what’s happening. It doesn’t feel real; like he’s gonna wake up or that someone is gonna shake his shoulder and he’s gonna startle back to reality. Sometimes he wanders into the kitchen or the living room, looking for Ma without realizing it. Sometime he hears Shermie crying and waits for Ma to get to him first but. .

In his dumber, sweatier moments he thinks: where did she go? But Shermie will cry or Pops will call or there’s dinner to cook and.

 

Ford tries to explain that it isn’t Stan’s fault and Stan loses it and trashes their room, tears everything from the walls, pulls and smashes every piece of furniture.  (Even Pops leaves him too it, just tells him to clean up his mess.) It was a freak accident, Ford says, it wasn't your fault. But Stan knows better because he was there when it happened and at the hospital when she died and he knows. Because Pops was right when he said--

 

“ Where were you!?” Pops is bellowing in the white, white, white halls of the hospital and Stan notes the tan, speckled pattern of the linoleum floor. Stan says nothing but he remembers...yes he was watching TV. Shermie was asleep and he was watching TV. “This is your fault.” Pops snarls and Stan, yes, Stan agrees. Security starts talking to Pops. The speckles in the linoleum make a bear.

He’s so stupid.

 

“ It’s alright, Ford,” Stan says, smiles at his brother but even he knows it’s stretched over his skull like it’s two sizes too small. Ford looks at him shrewdly and says nothing. Instead he glares at the floor.

“ You...will need help with the baby.” Ford offers lamely. Stan shrugs.

“ Pops, he...he has experience.” Stan glances, on instinct, at the door. For the baby or Pops he isn’t sure. He just does. He “just does” a lot of things now.

“ What are you doing?” Ford asks. Shermie makes a noise from the high chair. Poor thing can’t crawl around free because Stan can’t keep an eye on him and Pops is too busy. Ford could but Ford takes to babies like a duck to lava. Stan doesn’t mind.

“ Dinner,” he says easily and whacks the cream of mushroom soup can until it spills its contents like bile. Stan grimaces and tosses the can in the sink. He feels Ford watching him as his stirs the green beans and gelatinous soup together. He smiles grimly. “This is what good pussy sounds like.” He says.

“ Stanley,” Ford says, not angry but stern. Stan grimaces.

“ What’d’a want from me, Sixer?” Stan asks and sprinkles the fried onions on top. It wasn’t what Ma used to make but it’d have to do (they’ll never have that again).

“ What are YOU doing making dinner?” Ford asks, still leaning against the door frame. Still baffled. Stan slams the oven door shut, suddenly furious. (If he knew better he would say he felt like Vesuvius: a repressed force of vehement destruction and indiscriminate fires.) Instead, he feels like a cornered rat.

“ Well, who the hell else is supposed to make it, huh?” She snarls, aware that the oven mitts render him ridiculous and he tugs them off and throws them to the side. So what if they fall to the floor. Ford scowls and crosses his arms.

“ Shouldn’t be you,” he mutters and Stan laughs. He doesn’t mean to but he does.

“ Jesus, Stanford, what kinda a rock you livin’ under in yer big shot school?” Stan jeers. Ford narrows his eyes and Stan sees his fingers tighten against his arms. Good, Stan thinks, a fight would be good for him.

“ Shouldn’t be you, Stan,” Ford mutters again. Stan snarls at the dishes and then deflates. Stan knows his home; his place. This is safe; gray and flat. Dull. He doesn’t like it, but it’s safe. It’ll be okay.

“ There’s no one else, Stanford,” he says. Ford doesn’t bring it up again.

 

Stan gets quiet in a way he was never meant to be. He’s still boisterous and causes a raucous. He still talks to loud and with his mouth full.

But. He can’t be found by his boisterous laughter. He can’t be found by his loud, off key singing to himself. When he is alone, Stan is now quiet. He might mutter to himself, just little adjustments and observations, but he doesn’t make as much noise as he used to. Stan finds that he doesn't really want to be found.

 

Ford gets kicked out of the house for good with Ma around to mediate and badger Pops. No one’s surprised but Ford is pissed. It’s Ford’s own fault for being an ass to Pops, though, and even though Stan hates it he gets it. Besides, Ford’s got his smarts and his fancy school. He’ll be fine.

 

Pops stops letting him sleep in his own bed. They convert that to the baby’s room. It’s not so bad, Stan thinks when Pops is over him, behind him, in him. He can get used to this. Besides, what else is he gonna do? He can’t leave Shermie here and he hasn’t heard from Ford in months. And Pops is right, there isn’t much Stan is good for. The best he is is a con and since he quit boxing he isn’t as strong or as tough as he used to be.

His cooking is getting better though.

 

Shermie gets bigger, a teetering toddler and then a defiant kid and the only thing Stan fights Pops on is the belt. He understands a smack on the ass or no dinner. But the belt is too much. It's the first time in years he shouts at Pops and the first time in years he really pisses him off. It's...not pretty.

He has to drag himself up and out of the room into Shermie's where the kid is sniffling in terror. Shermie's young enough to miss the signs. Stan tells him that next time he here Daddy yelling to cover his ears with a pillow.

 

Somehow in the years without Ford (or Ma) Stan's heats have been duds. He hears that's what happens if you get knocked up too young. Something about screwing up your insides.

Stan finds that he's a little grateful.

 

Shermie's ten when Pops steps way the fuck over the line.

Kids are kids and Shermie's a boy on top of that. Of course he's gonna break things. The kid knows better than to run in the shop, but, hell. Stan's done that enough. He just never knocked over an entire stand of shit, crashing it to the floor, shattering pots and figurines. He's never made Pops so angry that his face turned red. Stan rushes into the pawn shop, full speed, in time to see Pops back hand his son into the mess of glass shard and sharp shit. Shermie cries, starts sobbing, trying to get out of the mess but everything he tries makes it worse. Pops grabs Shermie by the collar, ready to throw him when Stan barrels into him. Pops stumbles, releasing Shermie and Stan snatches him up, regretting the way his tight hold probably digs the various sharp and painful things into his son's skin. He picks up his son and rushes to the kitchen, where the phone is. He dials the police because this will get ugly. He hears Pops thundering toward them, slow and terrifying.

“Shermie, Shermie, honey, I need you to tell the man on the phone where you live, okay? You remember?” Stan gently shoves the phone into his son's hands. Shermie sniffles, still in pain, still in so much fucking pain.

“Why is D-daddy so--”

“Just—I need you to do that, okay?” Stan says, more forcefully as Pops enters the room. Shermie nods, big, fat tears still streaming down his face. Good kid. Tough kid. Stan hears a voice in the phone, small and tinny. “Go.” Shermie starts to stutter the address of the pawn shop into the phone. 

He catches Pops by surprise, coming in low and being defiant. Pops grunts, stumbling backward, falling with Stan around his waist. Stan tries to remember what he learned in boxing but its been years and Pops has muscle on him. His hair, grown out into something like a mullet, is yanked and Stan follows it or risks losing his scalp. Pops uses that momentum to throw Stan to the ground and roll over him.

He wastes no time punching Stan in the face. And again. And again.

It's not like that was Pops' favorite part anyway.

When Stan hears sirens Pops jerks back. He huffs, displeased, but calming down. Stan can't see much outta his left eye. His head is ringing but he can still hear Shermie crying.

 

Evidently, someone broke into the pawn shop. Shoved Shermie into the glass, wailed on Stan's face when he tried to intervene. Pops fought him off. The cops are satisfied and leave without a fuss. Pops waves off the offer to help them to a hospital. He drags both of them to the bathroom and tells Stan to clean up.

He does his best. Pulls the glass outta Shermie, cleans him up. Kisses his scrapes and cuts. They aren't too deep, mostly just him arms and little on his face. He sends Shermie to bed, promising to follow.

He carefully bleeds the swelling on his face, getting down to something more bearable.

Then he goes downstairs and calls a number he's had hidden in a cookbook for years. It's worn and creased and soft as tissue paper. His hands shake as he dials the number.

“Stanford Pines!” The voice chirps, deep and confident. Strong. (When did Ford get strong? When did he get stronger than Stan?) “Hello?” Stan takes another ragged breath.

“F-f...” He chokes.

“...Hello?” Ford sounds annoyed.

“Ford...” Stan whispers. He slumps against the wall and slides to the floor, hugging his knees even though it hurts.

“Stanley?” Ford's voice lilts up, hopeful, alarmed.

“I need help.” Stan chokes the words out past the tears. The tears make his face sting.

“Stanley, what happened? Are you alright?” Ford rushes. Stan hears feet on the stairs. “Stan?”

“Please. Please come.” Stan begs and then drags himself up to slam the phone in the reciever. He turns and sees Pops.

“You didn't come to bed.” Pops says. All the violent wrath from earlier is gone and he is once again flat and unruffled. He’s been drinking. A lot.

“I wanted to get some water.” He says. Pops stands there. Stan is still holding the paper in his hands. He crumples it and turns to the sink. There's a dirty glass and he uses it, stuffing the paper down the drain. He can't risk it. He gulps down the water and then feels arms wrap around his waist.

“Filthy.” He hears Pops mutter against his neck, never slurring even though Stan can taste the booze in his breath. Stan shudders, puts the glass down in the sink.

“I promised to check on Shermie.” He says. It sounds weak. When did he get so weak? So pathetic? He tries to remember but he can’t, not with Pops squeezing his soft stomach and sliding down to grope him. “Pops, Shermie--”

“Will learn his lesson.” He says, low and gruff. It sends the wrong kind of shivers down his spine. “And you will, too.” Pops presses him into the sink and Stan remembers a long time ago when Pops fucked him right here (and other times but the first was memorable. The firsts are always memorable.) “Clean up and come to bed.” Pops orders quietly, frankly, and leaves.

Stan waits a minute before moving. There’s no point in stalling. Pops doesn’t like to wait. So he washes the glass and sets it to dry, stops in the bathroom to wash his face (of the tears and the thick scabs that are already cracking). He considers lubing himself up because Pops will probably be rough, but he stalled too long in the kitchen and Pops has waited long enough. Besides, Pops gets off on making Stan wet. (It’s not so bad, sometimes he even enjoys it.)

Pops is sitting in the bed, naked. (He’s parent’s wedding bed, Ma would say.) The room is dim, not dark, the shitty, stuttering lamps of Glass Shards Beach. But the light is low enough that Pops has taken off his glasses. He doesn’t always do that, but now Stan can almost make out that flat, cold stare. He quietly strips, putting his clothes in the laundry basket even though he didn’t soak them, so they’re probably stained past saving. He’s no longer ashamed of being naked. He doesn’t like it, the vulnerability, the way his stomach hangs and the cool air on his dick. The hairs on his arms and legs rise and he shivers. Pops pats his lap, wordless. Stan complies, sits so that he strandles Pops’ legs. His big, rough hands cradles his face, somehow gentle but firm.

“You shouldn’t have interfered.” He rumbles and he must have his the Jack hard. Stan’s eyes water..

“He’s just a kid.” He says. Pops grunt a sound that’s almost, almost a laugh. It startles Stan enough that he looks back at his father. Pops runs his knuckles over Stan’s bruised cheeks and then cards through his hair, rests against the nap of his neck. Pops squeezes once, briefly, lightly.

“Your Ma said the same thing,” he sighs and brings Stan forward until their lips meet and Stan panics.

Because they don’t do this. Well, they have but Pops, Pops is just putting Stan to use, giving him a home. Pops doesn’t. This isn’t what they do. (Except when Pops is pissed as fuck and treats him like Ma, not that he could mistake Stan's hairy chest and back and ass for Ma. Stan misses Ma.)

Pops rumbles against his lips, pulls back.

“Stanley.” He catches Stan’s eyes and Stan can’t look away. (And he remembers taking Shermie to see “The Jungle Book” and the snake with the hypnotic eyes and that’s what this feels like. Stan is frozen and can’t look away for the world.) Pops looks almost like he wants to say something, but he just leans in again and this time Stan lets him, opens (because this is one of those times when Pops is drunk). 

It’s not like kissing Ford at all. The mustache is rough and unpleasant and Pops mouth tastes like cigars and whole bottle of booze. But he’s...gentle. As if he’s aware of Stan’s split lip and doesn’t want to bust it back open. Pops slides his mouth away, kisses the swelling on Stan’s jaw and moves to the bruises on his neck. Stan surprises himself when he moans, hands grabbing Pops’ shoulder. Pops rumbles against his skin and starts to mouth in earnest, sucking and nipping and Stan doesn’t understand why this feels good (stop, they don’t do this). Pops runs a hand down his side and up, cups his stupid man tit, other hands still gentle against his neck. (This is weird, this isn’t normal, Pops is usually two fingers in by now. Stan isn’t Ma; he’s not Ma.) Pops has moved to his collarbone, hand on his neck finally moving and sliding down his spine, cupping his ass and, okay, this is normal. They’re getting back on track. But Pops just rests it there, still just, sucking hickies into Stan (like he isn’t marked up enough). He lets go of Pops’ shoulder to reach behind himself, but there’s a hand on his wrist.

“Slow down.” Stan gulps and stills. Pops rubs a thumb against his wrist, brings it up to his mouth, catches Stan’s eyes again. Then, oh fuck, he kisses it. That does it, he starts shaking and this day has been awful and he hurts all over and he misses Ma and Ford and Pops is being--being nice (not to Stan, never to Stan, he’s drunk and confused). 

“Sh,” Pops kisses his check. Why is he being shushed? Oh, he’s crying. “I’ll take care of you.” He kisses the other cheek and Stan’s breathing is rough and wet (Pops is letting him cry nothing makes sense, wake up wake up). “I take care of what’s mine.” Pops shushes him again and now, now his hand slides and his fingers slide into the crack of his ass and, okay, Stan knows this part.

He’s wet, when did he get wet? It doesn’t matter. Pops is slow, circling and rubbing and the waiting for this to be over is driving Stan nuts. When Pops finally pushes a finger in it’s only to the first knuckle, just one finger (they fucked last night, it’s not like Stan is tight or anything, come on) and Stan moans, frustrated, shoving his forehead into Pops’ shoulder. 

He feels Pops kiss his hair.

Pops is slow, tender, finger slowly moving in and out, teasing that ring of muscles until Stan barely notices the second. It’s still shallow and maddening and Stan keeps moaning and sniffling and Pops keeps, just, being gentle. When Pops pushes deeper, finally, Stan groans right into Pops’ ear, making his hips rock up into Stan’s ass with a low growl.

“Please,” Stan whispers, begs, he needs this over, this bizarre sweetness that’s almost worse than the punching and fucking (it feels good, it feels nice and it’s not for Stan, not for Stan). Pops doesn’t say anything, kisses his head again, slips in a third finger and goes deeper. 

“Ungh,” Stan moans and feels himself drooling onto Pops’ shoulder. Pops pulls out and then pushes in, scissoring and spreading and doing what he’s supposed to. What he usually does. So Stan does what  he normally does and thrusts back, reaches behind him to spread his ass for better access. Pops rumbles his approval, craning his head to mouth at Stan’s jaw, other hand, the one not soaked in slick, to rub over his chest, his nipple. Scratching into the hair that has grown to cover his chest and arms and back. Like Pops. (He’s starting to look like Pops. He’s not Pops he’s not Ma he’s Stan he’s Stan.) 

He gets tugged into a better position one that has his knees against the headboard, dick almost rubbing into Pops’ chest. He’s ridden Pops before, he knows what to do, it’s just that Pops prefers to do the fucking rather than let Stan fuck himself. (not normal not right stop) Pops finally gets him situated, puts one hand on his hips, the other, Stan assumes, on his dick. Stan braces himself, one hand on Pops’ shoulder, the other grabbing his ass and he follows Pops hand down until he feels the broad head of his dick. It doesn’t scare Stan anymore, well, sometimes it does. But this time he’s frustrated and (maybe, maybe scared) he wants this over so he goes along with it, slow and easy (not for Stan) and the slow pace drags out his moan from a low shout to a too-high “aaah, ah, ah.”  He shivers, spasms instinctively. Pops grunts and then Stan’s hairy ass hits Pops’ pelvis. 

“Oooh,” Stan moans, “oh, God.” He sits there a moment, getting used to shit going in where it’s supposed to go out. It’s been ten fucking years, but he still needs a moment. Usually, Pops just goes and that’s fine. Keeps Stan from thinking (he’s not good at that, doesn’t want to do that). 

He’s been still to long, just breathing and feeling and he feels more and more real in this backwards world where Pops is kissing his jaw, sucking hickies into his neck. (not for Stan) He needs to move so he does, he pushes up, tries not to clench on the feeling on Pops sliding out. Pops leans back, just a loose hand on his hip, the other...caressing. It feels nice. (he doesn’t like it)

Stan tries to go fast. It makes his thighs and ass burn, his calves tremble, his feet cramp. Pops grunts, starting to breathe harder as Stan rides him, hips starting to thrust up on Stan’s down until every hit makes Stan gasp or moan and his legs are trembling with the strain of it. Maybe Pops picks up on that or maybe he’s bored with the pace, but he grabs Stan’s hips and starts thrusting up and pulling Stan down and, “fuuuck.” It’s good because Pops knows how to play him. (Even drunk as a skunk, damn him.) 

Thank God Pops knots him after that, fills Stan up (it's gross and wonderful and Stan remembers that this is what it feels like to get pissed in. Because when Pops got drunk and his knot started to go down all that liquor came out and, hell. Fuck, Stan hopes that doesn’t happen tonight.) Stan comes after that, like always, and this time Pops wraps his arms around him and pulls him close, Stan knotted to Pops’ lap.

They're both breathing hard and Stan’s legs hurt and one of his feet is falling asleep. They sit there in silence, Pops still being tender and gentle and Stan...Stan really hopes Ford gets here soon.

 

Ford shows up on the doorstep with a duffle bag. He looks rough, the same haggard he would get before and after an exam. He manages to make it through the pawn shop and into the living room before Stan sees him. Stan immediately drops the mixing bowl he’d been cleaning--it lands with a clang, splashing dirty, soapy water over the cheap linoleum.

“ Ford.” He says, eyes wide awed, surprised, scared. “You came.”

“ Stanley,” Ford makes to walk toward him, dirty shoes leaving scuffs of dirt on the carpet. Stan takes a shaky step forward before--

“Stan?” Stan turns, Shermie stands in the hall sleepily but scared, his scratches starting to fade. God, Stan must look awful. “Who’s that?” Ford doesn’t move, just narrows his eyes like he’s taking Shermie apart and putting him back together.

“My friend, uh, Sherms go back to your room, okay?”

“Does Daddy know you have a friend over?” Shermie asks, suspicious. Ford looks sharply at Stan. Stan’s tight smile gets tighter.

“Go to your room.” Shermie looks like he wants to argue but just fingers his cuts and turns. When he’s gone Stan slumps and smiles weakly at Ford. “Ford.” Ford marches forward, aggressive, face furious. Stan stumbles back, instinctively. Ford hesitates, then slowly reaches out to touch his face.

“He did this.” Ford says, voice flat and lethal. Stan turns away from the hand. Ford doesn’t follow him, lets his hand fall. “I’ll kill him.”

“Ford. It’s not.” Stan rubs his neck, scratches at the healing bruises there. Ford tracks him movements. And now that Stan really looks, Ford looks. Dangerous. He’s picked up a trench coat and some five o'clock shadow that make the bags under his bloodshot eyes more prominent. He looks like a man that could kill. “I need you to take Shermie.” Ford frowns, brows furrowing.

“Sherman?”

“Yeah, he.” Stan swallows. “He needs to go, Ford.” Stan bite his lip, God it’s gonna hurt to lose Shermie.

“I...don’t think I understand.” Ford says slowly.

“Heh,” Stan laughs low and quiet. “You remember how we were going to sailing around the world? You should...you should take Shermie sailing. I think he’d like that.” Stan  smiles sadly at Ford but it drops.

“...Are you suggesting I take your son on some adventure and leave you with that--that beast?” Ford hisses, furious. 

“He can’t stay here, Ford. You saw him!” Stan growls back.

“Him? Look at you!” Ford nearly shouts and Stan hurries to shush him.

“Ford, quiet, he can’t--”

Footsteps.

“ Shit,” Stan hisses, eyes flying to Ford’s face, terrified. “You gotta hide.” He rushes toward Ford and starts looking around. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“ Stan--”

“ He can’t find you, Ford.” Stan manages to stuff Ford into the hall closet, thank God his brother is so skinny. Ford objects but Stan slams the folding closet door, praying that Pops won’t notice anything through the slats.

“ What is this?” Stan jumps and turns. Pops’ is standing in what passes for a foyer, looking at the dirt, at the kitchen, at Stan standing guiltily.

“ I-I was just about to clean it up,” he stutters, winces, because Pops hates when he does that. It’s not manly. Pops looks at the dirt tracks, then at Stan again.

“ Did you leave the house?” He asks, voice still cold and flat. Stan tries not to shiver as he shakes his head, hard.

“ No, sir. I was putting in the first load of laundry and cleaning up lunch.” He says and it’s true. Pops has got to believe him. But, shit, if he does then he’ll know someone else is in the house. Shit, shit, shit. Pops starts to walk towards him, glancing at the bowl on the floor and the water pooling in the kitchen. Stan doesn’t backup, he stands his ground but he wants to run.

“ You wouldn’t leave my son alone.” Pops says.

“ He’s my son, too.” He mutters. It’s a mistake because even though Pop’s doesn’t move his face the air changes. Pops grabs him by the back of his neck, pressing on the old, fading bruises, making Stan hiss (this is familiar, this is normal).

“ Are you lying to me?” Pops asks. Stan can’t really shake his head. He grits his teeth.

“ No.” He grunts. Pops squeezes harder. “I swear. ”

“ You’re lying.” Pops just states as if his word is law, as if every word from his mouth because fact merely because he said it. Pops starts to drag him, Stan stumbling along with him. He shoves Stan onto the couch so that he kneels (Ma used to sit here while suckering people out of their money; she used to lounge here with a cigarette and a whiskey).

“ The shop,” Stan gasps as Pops pushes him down, stomach flat against the couch cushion. Pops grunts. Stan squeezes his eyes shut and, shit, remembers Ford. “Th-the bedroom. Isn’t that better?” He tries. Pops has already pulled his belt from his pants, letting it hang in his hands like a threat.  “ Shermie,” he pushes, desperate. Instead, Pops grabs the hem of his loose shirt and pulls it up, exposing his back. Oh, Stan thinks. It’s been a while but this...this is okay. Awful, but better than getting fucked in front of Ford.

“Will learn.  Pants.” Pops says. Oh, Stan thinks. But he does it because maybe Pops will stop with the belt and it’ll be okay. He shoves his jeans past his ass and to his knees. He’s stopped wearing underwear. It frustrated Pops.

The jeans around his knees kinda restrict his movements and chaff his skin, but he imagines he won’t worry about that soon. He takes a deep breath and buries his face into his folded arms, fist balling in the couch.

Pops gives no warning and that’s better, no tensing up or nothing. (He learned that in boxing, tensing up for a hit made it worse.) But that awful crack-whistle is almost as bad at the actual line of fire ants along his ass. He grits his teeth, doesn’t make a noise beside a hard breath out his nose. The next one isn’t any better, go figure. The crack makes him flinch; the hit makes him hiss.  Because that fucking hurts. And Pops doesn’t stop, give him time to catch his breath. Just keeps going until Stan has to pant, has to grunt, has to groan. Pops hits a dark bruise on Stan’s side and he can’t help shouting, the tears stinging his eyes. He chews arm trying to keep quiet after that and he’ll probably leave bruises but that doesn’t matter (what’s another set of bruises, right?) now because Pops hits a place already throbbing and Stan cries out again and he sounds pathetic. He doesn’t know how long Pops is gonna go, didn’t count, just tried not to feel every lash of the belt. Tried to take it like a man. (He hopes Shermie is putting the pillow over his head like Stan taught him.)

It stops and without that whistle and crack Stan can hear his loud, wet gasps that sound almost like sobs (but they aren’t, he isn’t crying) and Pops hard breathing. Stan hears the jingle of the buckle and oh, God, Pops is gonna use the buckle, he’ll kill him, he’s gonna kill Stan. But instead, Stan feels broads hands run down his back, over his ass. Each touch makes the growing welts throb, the bruises ache like his bones are broken. He breathes hard through his nose. He gasps when Pops spreads his asscheeks, rubbing a thumb over his hole.

He’s fucking wet.

Pops hums, appreciative, pushing and his thumbs slides in. They did this last night (again, a lot lately) and Stan’s still pretty pliable. (He hates it, hates how that knot changes his body.) So it doesn’t hurt but no matter what his whore, omega body says, he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t, fuck, Ford is still in the closet, Ford can hear everything. He whines into his arms, not able to suppress it. Pops makes a noise and then--

“ Hgh!” Pops makes a rough, wet noise and Stan doesn’t want to turn around but he does, ass still bare to the world and sees:

Pops scrambling at his throat, groping behind himself. His fedora has flown of. It makes him look more human. There’s that belt around Pops’ throat and wrangling him like an unruly horse is Stanford, face twisted into a fury Stan has never seen. (But imagines that is the fury God felt before he wiped the earth.)

Then it hits that they are trying to kill each other.

“ Ford!” He shouts, his voice hoarse. “Stop, you’re killing him!” He tries to stand, gets tangled in his jean and kicks the damn things off. He runs over but stumbles, his back screaming at him (and his legs and everything, everything hurts) and he wants to get back up but Pops must have really fucked him up because he collapses. It doesn’t make sense that scrawny Ford is able to keep Pops on the ropes, that Pops is slowing down, that his face is turning red and blue and purple (like watching a dog take down a bear). Stan struggles to stand again and he makes it too his feet, staggering over to do something, he doesn’t know, he’ll figure it out. “Ford, stop! Stop!” Ford snarls, seems to yank harder and Pops lands on the floor.

“ He deserves it, Stanley.” Ford gasps. Stan freezes. Pop’s glasses have fallen off in the struggle and Stan can see his glassy eyes, losing focus as his mouth works uselessly. “For everything. For you. For you son.”

Ford’s right. This can stop. This can all stop. (But what next, what’ll he does? All he knows to do is cook, clean, and get fucked.)

“ F-ford,” Stan begs, “I can’t.” Ford growls, face getting hard.

“Then for me.” He says, pressing a knee into Pops’ back and by now Pops is barely fighting, barely moving (barely alive). 

“I-I’ll get. Get. Bags.” Stan stumbles and hurries away from the wet, choking sounds that repeat in his head.

He stops in Shermie’s room first. The kid’s in the corner with his pillow covering his ears. Good boy.

“Hey, Sherms? We, uh, gotta pack.” Stan smiles, watery and strained. Shermie shakes in the corner.

“Is Daddy mad?” He asks and Stan gulps, starts to shake.

“No...no. Daddy isn’t mad. He’s. Letting us go.” Stan finds Shermie’s backpack and empties is, papers and books flying. He starts to stuff clothes into the bag, tries to think of what they’ll need.   
“Where are we going?” Shermie has finally made his way over. He grabs Stan’s shirt. Stan realizes he doesn’t have any pants on. 

“Uh, well. It’s a surprise! Now, Sherms, I need you to pack, okay? Stay here, I’ll be back.” Stan places a quick kiss on Shermie’s head. Shermie nods and Stan bolts to the bedroom. 

It smells like Pops, like him, like sex. 

He almost screams when he feels arms wrap around his waist.

“ It stinks in here,” he hears Ford whisper into his ear, feels it. He brushes against every one of the welts on Stan’s back, squeezes the bruising on his ribs.

“ Fuck, Ford, stop.” He hissed. Ford nuzzles his neck and Stan starts to wiggle. “Ford, that hurts, dammit.” Ford growls but lets go. He leaves a hand on Stan’s shoulder blade.

“ He won’t hurt you anymore.” Ford  says as he gently, lightly runs a hand up and down Stan’s back.

“ Ford, you---he’s--”

“ Not a problem.” Ford walks around so that he’s facing Stan. He grabs one of Stan’s hands and kisses it. Stan gulps. “Now, get some clothes. We have time but we should leave quickly anyway.”

He dresses in old, dirty jeans. He won’t take the ones in the living room. He can’t go in there. His shirt, at least, is clean. He doesn’t know what else to take.

Eventually, he gets everything together.

He gets Shermie, picks him up in a way he hasn’t for years. Shermie doesn’t mind, just hugs his neck. Thankfully, Ford’s covered the body. 

“ We’ll take the El Diablo,” Ford says, shoulder two of their bags while Stan holds Shermie. Stan nods. “I’ll drive.” Stan nods again. He doesn’t look when he walks through the living. 

“ Where are we going?” Stan finally asks, securing Shermie in the backseat. Ford eyes Sherie dubiously before grinning.

“ Have you ever heard of a place called Gravity Falls?”


End file.
